


Happy

by destielgivesmethefeels



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, I swear, I think?, Merlin is happy, Other, fluff if you squint, it's not a slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24005689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielgivesmethefeels/pseuds/destielgivesmethefeels
Summary: Merlin finds peace in the chaos of a global pandemic.
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!! This is my first fic ever about Merlin. This quarantine thing really has me digging deep in this new haven I've found. I'm not sure how close to character this whole thing is since I'm still new to the fandom. And I haven't written anything in a long time so I feel not so good about how it sounds. But it's my birthday so this is my little treat for myself. It is basically just my feelings with the name Merlin plastered onto it. Anywho, this is a look into how I (i.e. Merlin) have been dealing with the lockdown.  
> Basically, it is sleeping, music, and baking with Claire from the Bon Appetit Test Kitchen.  
> The recipes are real and I have tried them all, so maybe you can also bake your way through quarantine with this fic as a guide ;)  
> Enjoy!!

“Merlin!”

The call comes muffled by the earbuds he is wearing, the slight frustration laced in its tone makes clear it has not been made on the first try. 

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Would you mind not using the mixer?” Arthur’s voice echoes through the house, the exasperation now replaced by one asking for some sympathy. “I’m in a meeting.”

“Sorry!” Merlin hollers in response and takes off the earbuds. 

Lifting up the mixer, he can see that although the meringue is at stiff peak, it is not as glossy as he would like. For now, it will have to do, Merlin thinks as he reaches for the bag of almond flour in the cupboard.

Now, where did he leave his sieve? He makes a vested effort to be as gentle as he can while rummaging through each drawer in the kitchen, before bumping his head on the lip of the black marble counter when he is finally gripping it in his hand in firm triumph. One and a half cup of almond flour, one cup of confectioner’s sugar, and a pinch of salt. Tapping the side of the sieve with rhythm, he watches as the rain of powder cascades down into the copper bowl below. Every now and then, some of the sweet mixture would find its way onto the midnight surface, forming constellations of white speckles in disregarded spontaneity. 

“What are you making?” Arthur asks, now standing beside Merlin in the kitchen, eyes full of apparent fondness.

“Macarons,” Merlin says, adding a third of the dry mixture into the meringue with all his intent, careful not to deflate the air he had previously whipped in the egg whites. Gliding the spatula along the side of the bowl, he gingerly scraped the bottom before folding it over itself. He has learned from hard-earned experience that absolute gentleness holds the utmost importance at this stage, not efficiency. 

“Again?” 

Merlin raises his eyebrow at the familiar fretfulness, questioning Arthur’s meaning with his glance. 

“Not that I’m complaining obviously. God knows your macarons are scrumptious,” Arthur smilingly defends himself. “It’s just I think I’m gaining a bit of weight, what with the lockdown and your baked goods. Don’t you think?” 

“You know what they say. More to love and whatnot.”

“Sappy dork,” Arthur chuckles, right arm draped over Merlin’s shoulders, lips pressed against his temple is surely salty with sweat from him being concentrated on the restrained folding of his arm. 

“Surely, you’re the one to say,” is Merlin’s swift snark, eyes having returned to the task at hand. “Do you mind turning that off, Arthur?” He continues when the distant ringing grew louder. 

“Turn what off?”

Merlin opens his eyes and is welcomed by the sneaking rays of sunlight that has managed to bend themselves through the slight parting of his curtains. Against the blank backdrop of his bedsheets, they bid him their lambent greetings as they dance their mesmerizingly sporadic numbers. 

7:30 a.m., his phone reads, once it has ceased its interruptive alarm. A bit earlier than he expected to wake up. As he scrolls through the news, he tries to not be weighted down by the slew of statistics and breaking news that has grown familiar in the past month. He has arrived at his own conclusion on the matter, albeit quite a disheartening one. The situation is too far out of anyone’s control to concern himself with its bleakness. The pandemic is bound to grow worse before it would vanish with the same precipitance with which it has come. His best course of action now is to return his life to the furthest allowable extent of its former normality.

When he goes to open the curtains and pushes open the windows on their noisy hinges, Merlin is glad to find the pleasant late spring chill still present in the morning breezes rushing in as if to discover every corner of the uncharted land that was his bedroom. The drowsiness from a long night’s sleep still lingering, he staggers in the slightest as he heads for the bathroom, his toes combing lazily through the soft material of the carpet. In front of the mirror, he gazes into his own blue eyes. He remembers days when they held within themselves a curious brilliance of a summer sky. He remembers days when they were dark with tumultuous ghasts of a raging ocean. He remembers days when they wore a muted shade of drying accidental paint drops on an abandoned canvas. Today, they conjure up an untroubled river, idly watching by in its forever nonchalance as kingdoms and queendoms rose and fell, occasionally sparkling under the sun as if to remind mankind it is there to bear witness to their history.

He smiles. Not too long ago, it would be stoic, an exercise he insisted on taking every morning should the need arise for him to use it. Today, it is genuine. He is happy, with himself most importantly. Surely, he is far from perfect, of which he is acutely aware. The bags under his eyes are still visible if enough attention is called upon. His stature remains overly sickly for someone who has been trying for three months to lose the pudge of fat above his pelvis. He would find himself slacking on the internet when he is supposed to work. And more often than not, he would have to stop himself from sneering at someone who has inadvertently got on his nerves. However, when he looks in the mirror now, he can also see how much he has grown. The flaws are there, but no longer do they bite at him. Their presence only means he is capable of becoming a better person. For that, he is happy. 

Crêpes Suzette. Despite the French name, which must have had many fallen deceived, they are easy to make. In a bowl, whisk together three large eggs, three-quarters cup of flour, salt and sugar to taste, and a pinch of cinnamon for good luck. Do not stress on the texture of the batter at this stage, it is supposed to be thick. 

Gradually whisk in half a cup of whole milk until there are no visible clumps. The finished batter should be smooth and should run off the whisk when lifted. Adjust the amount of milk in order to reach the desired consistency, and do add vanilla beans or other spices of choice at this stage.

To make brown butter, melt four tablespoons of unsalted butter in a high-walled saucepan, stirring occasionally. Wait until the yellow foam has turned golden, and brown specks of caramelized milk solids have appeared. Quickly remove the saucepan from the heat and slowly stream the brown butter into the batter whisking constantly. Once the butter has been emulsified, the crêpe batter is ready. 

On a stovetop, over medium-high heat, place a non-stick skillet along with a dollop of butter. When the butter has melted and starts to bubble, add two tablespoons of the batter, and tilt the skillet to create a thin even circle. Let the first side cook for forty seconds or until the edges curl up and the crêpe develops browning. Flip and cook the second side for 15 additional seconds. Remove the crêpe and continue with the remaining batter. 

“Beurre suzette” requires four ingredients, the zest of three oranges and one lemon, a quarter cup of granulated sugar, and four tablespoons of butter. Mix well until the butter and sugar have become homogeneous. In a heated skillet, melt about a tablespoon of the butter mixture along with a splash of freshly squeezed orange juice. One by one, coat both sides of each crêpe before folding it in quarters to form a triangle. 

Next comes the theatrical element, flambé. In the same skillet, heat up a third cup of orange juice, the juice of half a lemon, a quarter cup of Grand Marnier. Allow a minute for the crêpes to soak in the liquid. The last step requires speed. Add three tablespoons of Cognac, tilt the skillet carefully so that the liquid comes up to the edge but does not spill over. 

Merlin leans back cautiously as he watches flames flare up excitingly as if they themselves have just risen from a restful slumber. Once the fire has died down, he quickly stacks the crêpes on a shallow volcanic plate he found in a flea market in Manchester, and adds a sprinkle of orange zest for presentation. It can easily be argued this is far too much effort for a breakfast for one on just another uneventful weekday, but what else does Merlin have but time during a national lockdown? Besides, he has learnt that spoiling himself every once in a while is a much more effective and sustainable coping mechanism than liquors, the taste of which he has never truly enjoyed. 

Finally settling down on the balcony of his flat, Merlin chuckles softly when he sees that his neighbours from across the street are struggling to salvage some vestige of their former routine with their ruckus kids bouncing off the sofa by their bay window. The sun soothes his cool skin with its utmost gentleness, it favours his pale complexion with kissing rays of warmth. Merlin’s hummings are soft with contentment as the tart lusciousness of his morning endeavour coats his taste buds, his eyes closed to ravish in the tranquility uncharacteristic of downtown London that is slowly becoming the new normal. 

The ringing of his phone transports him back from his personal fleeting ethereality, perhaps quite unceremoniously, but his lips tug into a faint smile when he finally makes out the name on his phone’s dimmed screen that is struggling in a losing battle against the pouring sunlight. 

“Merlin!” 

He has yet to figure out the reason, but it swells his soul hearing his name called in drawn out syllables by a voice with such a honeydew timbre, intonations wild as the crashing waves on the beach. 

“How are you, Arthur?” Try as he might, his fondness is unconcealable. 

“Are you having breakfast?” Arthur’s brows furrow in its usual inquisitive way. Merlin has noticed over the years that every emotion Arthur is feeling always finds itself onto his face, whether it be his brows, his sky blue eyes, his taunting lips, or his proud nose. He has meticulously documented their every meaning, keeping them to himself so he could righteously one day declare he knows Arthur better than any other living soul. 

“Yes, Arthur. Crêpes Suzette,” Merlin tilts his phone slightly to show the plate sitting rather precariously on his lap. 

“Crêpe what? Oh, it looks fantastic. You gotta make it for me once this thing is over.” 

Merlin chuckles tenderly, looking at the screen again, where only Arthur’s forehead and golden hairline is now visible. 

“Arthur, lean back! You know you can’t smell it through your phone. And didn’t you say you should watch your weight the other day?” Merlin taunts. This banter between them always comes naturally and unbidden. 

Arthur gasps dramatically, a hand raised to his chest in feigned offense, “I have never uttered such words. Such nonsense!” 

“Yes, he should,” says a teasing voice, “And your baked goods are not helping, Merlin.”

Merlin beams brightly as Gwen comes into the frame. It was two years ago that Merlin was standing on a pedestal to officiate the marriage between her and Arthur. It was a beautiful wedding lined with white silk and scattered roses, cheers and laughter shared in the holiness of their union. Merlin would be lying though if he said the overjoyed expressions he was wearing on that day were genuine. Today, however, his smile is no less sincere than when he looked at himself earlier, or when he was joking about with Arthur just a second ago. And if there is dull heaviness spreading in his chest when Gwen wraps her arms around Arthur’s shoulders and has Arthur grinning with a soft press of lips on his temple, Merlin does not pay it too much attention, for he knows it is not permanent and will soon recede. 

Sourdough has as simple a list of ingredients as it would get, flour, water, and salt. Therefore, to make a decent loaf, it is the care with which the bread is made that truly matters. Excluding the time needed to grow a proper starter, the process takes two days. 

On the first day, mix the flour with water to form a rather wet dough. White bread flour would suffice, but any less processed flour such as whole wheat would serve well in adding complexity to the flavour profile. For every four parts dough, add one part starter, and once well incorporated season with two percent salt by weight. Lift up the dough and slap it down on the work surface with considerable force for approximately five minutes to form the gluten necessary for the desired stretchy texture once baked. Let the dough proof in a warm spot coated in oil. Every thirty minutes fold the dough on itself several times and repeat for at least four hours. On a well-floured surface, start shaping the dough, stretching it out into a disk about an inch thick before folding the edges over, and pinching them together in a process called “stitching”. Once satisfied with the shape, let the dough rest on the seam side for a few minutes. Place the dough in a floured container, seam side up, and leave to proof overnight in the fridge. 

On the second day, the work is less strenuous. Flip the dough out on a floured parchment paper, and score the surface in any preferred pattern. Drop the dough into a dutch oven preheated at the highest temperature possible of the oven and cover with a lid. After fifteen minutes, remove the lid and leave to bake for an additional 30 minutes. Wait to cool before cutting into slices. 

Merlin carefully places the bread basket on the step, knocks on the ebony door of the townhouse, and walks back to stand by his car. 

The door opens to reveal Arthur and Gwen standing giddy as the kids at their souls, each boisterously shouting at him their greetings and gratitude. Gwen has her hands instinctively on her belly and the ever protective Arthur with his on her back. Merlin knows their family will be one where joy is abundant, and he lets them know every chance he can. 

For dinner, Merlin does not like to cook lavish meals. He is usually too tired to clean up at the end of the day, and dirty dishes in the sink are not a scene he fancies waking up to. Tonight, he opts for a bowl of simple fruit salad made with some berries he has found lolling at the back of the fridge, and a quarter of the cantaloupe he bought out of pity for the old lady at the corner store. 

After a night of watching old movies in a recommendation list he found online and consoling his worrying mother, Merlin tugs himself into bed. Two pillows under his head, one at his feet, and one under his right arm, he heaves a long sigh and closes his eyes. His bed may feel a bit cold, and too big for only himself, and salty tears may wet his lashes, but Merlin feels sane. 

Love, it feels distant at times, like a folklore one might tell their children to lure them to sleep. But Merlin still believes. He believes one day he can find his love. One day, he can find that obscure but unmistakable someone to be the sandy beach to his raving ocean - who he can kiss the way waves crash into the shore, passion-filled and all at once, then caressing and silent, again and again, repeating without tire until perpetuity itself ceases to be. 

He believes, and so as he welcomes the bliss of his dreams, he smiles. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
